Flor Sin Retoño
by shinko112
Summary: In the end, however, who we are born as and who we die as does not matter neither does the social level we are born into and ultimately die in for each has one indisputable thing in common.
1. Flor

_Whatever our struggles and triumphs, however we may suffer them, all too soon they bleed into a wash, just like watery ink on paper._

Arthur Golden - _Memoirs of a Geisha_

Flor Sin Retoño

The night was frigid, the apartment dark save for the light of the candles on a low table in the corner of the room. Crystal tears fell from her soft chocolate colored eyes, smearing her kohl and leaving wet trails down her white painted face revealing the skin beneath and falling onto the table on which her head lay. He wasn't coming back, she knew for he left her a long time ago, but somewhere deep within her soul she held onto the childish fantasy that he would return to her. Her danna, a sob escaped her, her danna no longer wanted her, after so many years of serving him of endless devotion he tossed her aside like a broken doll. Her makeup ruined, her elaborate hair in total disarray, her life wasted, while her cream colored kimono with emerald and gold vines and plumb colored obi remained perfect and unmarred with tears, she wanted to keep that little bit of dignity. While it was true that she was still able to work and that none of her skills in dancing, playing the shamisen and all the other training she received was still intact, without a danna advancing her career was nearly impossible.

"Danna-san mata yo, ne?" she whispered into the darkness for her maid was dismissed hours earlier, told to find new work and never return. Whatever meager wages she earned from the point her danna stopped supporting her she needed in order to purchase kimono, going to the hairdresser, vanities such as her makeup, her dresser, and all other manner of expenses. Her spacious apartment, the length of six tatami mats, needed to be sacrificed along just as she sacrificed her maid, the money to keep it was far more than she made without a danna. Before, while she was still an apprentice, a simple Maiko, she never believed in the importance of a danna, regardless of her "older sister's" insistence that she needed one in order to advance in her career and thus leave the okiya she was bound to. Of course, there was still her collection of kimono and each kimono sold for at least 1150 yen, but she loathed to part with them for he gave them to her, even the ones she no longer wore the ones meant for an apprentice. Her jewelry, perhaps if she sold her ornaments, but with unadorned hair, the chance of ridicule increased tenfold, bad enough that she was without a danna but to also be without ornaments for her hair as well it was unacceptable. The loss of her danna was not such a terrible thing, however, she committed the worst type of mistake for a woman in her career she fell in love with a man, a man that was chosen as her danna over all the other men who vied for that position.

She remembered the first time she met her danna, at the age of fourteen when she was at her first engagement as a novice, she remembered how handsome he was but what truly entrapped her was his eyes, the color of liquid gold but as cold as the snow covering the ground outside the teahouse. Those eyes, such an unusual color (that was her opinion all those years ago), she remembered their calmness, void of any type of emotion as the others performed dances, sung songs, and attempted to draw him into conversations. However, unlike his companions who appeared to enjoy the company of so many women, this man appeared to be bored with the whole affair never acknowledging any advances in conversation. In truth she doubted that he was there of his own free will, later on she learned that he was there due to obligation and other more personal reasons that he never confided in her about. She remembered that from that moment on, from the moment she first laid eyes on him, she was bound to him in a way that was indescribable, he plagued her dreams and every time she performed she always imagined that she was performing for him. She pretended that it was his tea or sake that she was poring, she pretended that she was conversing with him, such foolish naïve dreams that perhaps he was the one that was willing to pay the highest amount for her mizuage, for he appeared to like her. She was the only woman with whom he treated with a little dignity and did buy her several presents, a ruby that she asked gave to her "Mother," a trunk for her to use when she went on trips outside of her district, a parasol, and other little items more than any other woman received from him. She remembered her "older sister" saying that no man was interested in a young fourteen-year-olds conversation what he truly wanted was her mizuage, and it seemed that that was what the Golden-eyed Man did want- her mizuage for he did make bids on it. However, once the price came to 900 yen, he dropped out, this was not to say that the price was too high for he possessed enough wealth to pay four times that amount, it became apparent to her that whatever this man found attractive in her it wasn't her mizuage. Her mizuage sold for an amazing 13500 yen, bought by a the owner of a large company whose headquarters where in Tokyo, and the experience was one she never wanted to remember, after that one night she rarely saw the man again. However, she continuously saw the Golden-eyed Man many nights afterward, she was always the one to serve him and thus always sat next to him even though he rarely spoke to her or gave any indication that he heard her words. Sometimes he called her comments foolish and she was sure that he was angry with her but he never chose another woman to entertain him even though there were countless others willing to do so, for that she was grateful.

One month after her eighteenth birthday and when her apprenticeship was completed her Mother informed her that a man offered to be her danna, her shock instantly turned into enthusiasm when she learned that her danna (if chosen by Mother) was the Golden-eyed man. She knew his name by that time, but she never called him by it when she was alone for he was always the "Golden-eyed Man" in her mind and nothing was capable of changing the title.

The tears stopped, but she kept her head on the table without the smallest amount of energy to raise her head and certainly none to fix her ruined makeup, rearrange her hair ornaments, and leave for a teahouse to entertain men for at least an hour or so. Everything was so meaningless now that he was gone, what purpose did she have to live for her life was him, he was her reason for existing, her reason for excelling at her art the reason that she never ran away when she was still an apprentice, even when life was unbearable. She no longer possessed a reason for living, she felt empty and cold without him, she felt worthless and felt that perhaps death was a better solution than fading into obscurity and falling deeper and deeper into poverty as the days passed. It was certainly a much better option, in her mind, than becoming a prostitute and living in a poor jorou-ya and spending the rest of her days as a plaything for men who reeked of sweat. She lifted her head and spied a small hand mirror, the last gift he gave her and at the time she treasured it above all the others now she refused to look at it for the image reflected in the black lacquered mirror decorated with gold vines mocked her. She moved slowly, her petite frame traveling languidly through the semi-darkness, sleepily almost, she picked up the mirror and removed its cover placing it gently on the table she stared at her reflection once before throwing the mirror onto the floor and watched it shatter- like she shattered.

In the end, however, who we are born as and who we die as does not matter neither does the social level we are born into and ultimately die in for each has one indisputable thing in common: a corpse is a corpse regardless of its heritage, wealth, skin color, gender, or race. She stared at the broken pieces of glass and in each fragmented piece she swore that she saw pieces of her life memories of a time before, before the white makeup, even before the lessons, to a time when she was merely a normal girl running around barefoot through her village in an old tattered robe. She gently picked up a shard of the broken mirror, taking care not to cut her fingers - there were only two things she wanted to cut that night nothing more. The blood that seeped into the sleeves of her kimono spread, staining the delicate silk and as the blood continued to flow she laid her head once more on the table, sleepy dimly noting that the night grew colder and colder or perhaps it was just her she mused before darkness enveloped her, the candles burned out blanketing the room in complete darkness.

Outside, on the snowy ground a crimson ribbon lay abandoned on the ground appearing like blood against the purity of the snow or like red lips against a white painted face.


	2. Corazon

It's been forever since I updated anything, many of you probably gave up on me. I apoligize for the delay. The second have of junior year was hell, I was always sick, balancing 3 APs and pre-calc. Summer happened and I spent most of my time recovering and working on college stuff. Senior year started and more AP, college stuff, family problems, and spending the last year of high school with my friends, especially those who won't be staying in FL. Also, I've been re-writing Understanding. It's not what I really wanted and there are many holes and flaws in the story, after re-reading the chapters I wanted to stab my eyes out with a spork. When I finish with that, I shall post the new chapter.  
In a way I'm lucky, my work is not that popular and I'm not recieving reviews telling me to update, or threats. If anyone considered it, you may try but it won't get any results.

Now I present the second part of Flor Sin Retoño, which was always supposed to have a second and final part but I never finalized til now.

Snow blanketed the ground that he walked on, boots making impressions in the cold substance, the snow packed down from his weight. Western culture possessed too much influence for his liking; too many of their beliefs replaced the truth, the beliefs that made up Japan. Purity, that is what they believed snow represented. Purity due to its whiteness, unmarked perfection, immaculate, unsoiled; snow was clean and pure, but they did not understand the true nature of snow, cruel and callous it was and its "pure" façade masked horrors unbeknownst to society. White, it hid so many things, obstructing so much from view.

Snow swathed, covering the ground from view hiding any secrets that may lurk beneath; it was bland, unemotional, maddeningly plain, far reaching. Snow was dead; it killed everything that lived by suffocating it, smothering the inner flame, freezing the warmth. White, symbolized death – it always symbolized death until the westerners arrived with their beliefs that black was the proper color for death. They did not understand, foolish westerners, that white was the true color of death. Winter was proof of that, all colors muted, bleached, covered in snow – plants frozen – trees exploding due to the freezing sap within; animals that did not have shelter dying from overexposure. Snow, such a light and fluffy substance - crystallized water, each individual flake melted quite easily. Such was the force of white; a small speck covered nothing, masked nothing, but a patch of white like a patch of snow hid much.

He continued his trek through the snow, unfeeling of the cold, uncaring of the snow – it suited him. He always wore white; it was part of who he was. He was perfection, like the snowflake with its six points, and he was death like the snow. He was callous and deadly. Despite this, he knew he was not a perfect relation to snow – snow had a weakness the warmth of spring. No, he believed he was more like the illustrious moon in the sky; it was dead, luminous, and held no life.

He paused in his walk, a blotch of color amidst the white catching his eye – crimson. He walked over to it, slowly picking the silken object up – a crimson hair ribbon, a hair ribbon that was agonizingly familiar but completely foreign. He had seen a ribbon so similar to this countless times before, tied amongst ebony locks; he had held a ribbon similar to this so many times while his free hand ran through the same ebony locks. He dropped the ribbon on the snow once more, attachments created weaknesses and he refused to be weak, he needed no one and needed nothing. He rose, fully prepared to turn away from the ribbon, away from this place and all the memories it held for him – memories he wanted to forget but somehow he knew that was impossible.

If he was the moon then she was the sun, if he was winter then she was spring, she was his opposite in every way but there were still so many similarities between them. There was so much that occurred between them, so much that he wanted to remember but wished not to, the choices he made were haunting and bitter not fleeting and sweet. He gazed at the ribbon once more, drawn to it, drawn to its vibrancy the crimson stark against the paleness of the snow entrancing and mocking. Memories, unbidden and saccharine floated through his mind, brushing against his inner walls, a gentle pressure on his heart that was easy to ignore but impossible to forget, always remembered and always familiar. He felt the touch of phantom fingers, brushing against the nape of his neck, tracing the delicate point of his ear, moving to the stripes on his face; he closed his eyes lost in the sensation, an intimate gesture that was lost to him forevermore. He wanted, he wanted, no, there was nothing that he wanted from a female, nothing that she possessed appealed to him it was merely curiosity that drew him to her, nothing more this he repeated and this he tried to believe.

He picked the ribbon up once more, running his fingers across the smooth surface; the sensation was a familiar one, just as familiar as the texture of her hair brushing against his bare arm, of flesh beneath his questing hands. He knew her, new every facet of her personality, her hopes and dreams, and every inch of skin hidden beneath her silk kimonos, beneath the white make-up. Her form, her eyes, her smile were as familiar to him as the stripes on his wrists and she became a large part of him moving closer and closer until he was unable to determine where he ended and she began. She was the part of him kept hidden, locked away, forbidden from seeing the light of the sun for it was weakness and he was the dark recess of her soul also locked away, hidden deep beneath the surface.

As a child, she was innocent and carefree, the first time he saw her, a young dirty child in tattered clothing running barefoot through the grass damp with morning dew and laughing with the wind that flowed through her hair tangling it with invisible fingers. It was not the laughter, nor the actions, nor the clothing that caused him to pause in his movements, but her eyes larger than most children's eyes and a rich chocolate brown, unfathomably deep. She did not see him, hidden as he was by the foliage of the trees but he saw her, knowing that the possibility of him ever seeing her was miniscule but unable to draw away. He never expected to see her again, never expected to find himself held prisoner by her stare, despite the beginnings of womanhood her eyes remained large and deep, retaining the innocence he remembered.

Despite this, despite the innocence that radiated from her there was also a deep sadness hidden deep within her eyes, behind the smile a lingering desire, an old pain and bittersweet memories. Her smile was an honest one he remembered, nevertheless, the sorrow still lingered in her eyes from soul-wounds that had long since healed but left jagged scars that never lightened in color and texture. He felt himself drawn to her, felt himself wanting to rid her of that ancient hurt to rid her of the sadness hidden within her eyes buried underneath the layers of paint, silk, training, and well-practiced smiles. She intrigued him such hidden sorrow juxtaposed with such vibrant happiness, true the smiles occasionally appear pasted and false; she retained her sanguine nature from childhood. It was a welcomed change to the eyes he always saw; empty, devoid of life, filled with resignation, easily matching the blank painted white faces that resembled masks instead of a living being.

She drew him towards her, drew him deeper into her warmth, embracing him warming his once frozen heart, chipping away at the walls that surrounded it. He knew her, nothing about her was a mystery to him, her past her body everything was laid before him to see, the ancient wounds reopened before him, only for him and this touch, easing the hurt, bandaging the wounds. Haunted by the first time he had her, the memories plagued him, every action clearly visible, his senses tingling, he relived the experience; the softness of her hair between his fingers the feeling of raw silk and the satiny smoothness of her skin. He was thankful that he had not been the one to participate in her mizuage, it freed him from the sight of her blood, from causing her pain, and he never wanted to see her in pain. It scared him, scared him to feel devotion for her, to care so much about her that he drew away from her, away from her sweet presence, her laughter, and her warmth. He drew away from her, she was not the type of woman he could claim as his, of ignoble birth, a peasant not worthy of his class, not worthy to be called lady because of the blood in her veins. Lineage, social status, pride, these things mattered to him, he could not taint his family name anymore than it already was, he would not deign himself to walk the same path as his father, to repeat the same mistakes, he was above that. He wanted the separation to be easy, pretended that he did not care, that she was simply some object to be discarded when she had served her purpose, believing a lie was much easier than facing the truth. He left her, without a backwards glance, but he already knew what he would see if he dared to look back, tears in her dark brown eyes, eyes filled with hurt. He never felt remorse, regret, sadness, or sympathy, such sentiments were a sign of weakness and he was not weak but as he left her, he felt strange, leaden and he realized that he loathed the feeling.

Not a day passed that he did not wonder about her, a thousand times he vowed never to think of her and a thousand times he failed, so deeply was she buried into his being that life became greatly altered once she disappeared from his sight. Words never sufficed in expressing the depths of his feelings, unaccustomed to the loneliness, the regret, and unable to express his thoughts to ease the burden he carried, each day growing heavier and heavier he felt himself continuously drawn back to her. Her memory rivaled the siren's song, drawing him to her, calling, sensuous, forbidden but desperately wanted, how he wanted to be with her to assure himself that she was there that she was still his. He never gave into his desires, to do so was to show weakness, and would seal his fate, to approach her once more and hold her in his arms only had one result, he would never be able to walk away from her again.

She was the sun the source of all life - more exactly she was life the flower that grew in the garden hidden under a large tree, struggling to obtain enough light to grow, a plain thing when it first began to grow but a beautiful flower in bloom. She was his flower, struggling to grow in such oppressive circumstances, but it was such suffering that made her so much more appealing, the ability to retain such optimism, innocence, and sweetness for all the pain. She was the spring, the rebirth, the time after the death of winter when everything came to life, when the world was once again filled with color and life – the blooming of flowers perfuming the air and the songs of birds serenading all that had ears. Spring was the time of rebirth, but for her spring was denied to her, the dormancy of winter would never be removed, she was locked in an eternal winter.

He dropped the ribbon on the snowy ground once more before turning away from it and walking away leaving the crimson to stain the ground like the blood of so many soul wounds.

_Esa_ _flor ya no retoña  
Tiene muerto el Corazon  
_Charlie Zaa - _Flor_ _Sin Retoño_


End file.
